The Florida sun is long gone by the time you step through the front door of your mansion. The air inside smells different - faintly of your own shampoo, a warmth that wasn't here when you left. You move through the marble hallway, instinct pulling you toward the master bedroom. The door is cracked open. Soft breathing drifts through. There, wrapped in your sheets, is a girl - small, barely taking up space, dark wavy hair fanned across your pillow like she belongs there. She looks exhausted even in sleep. Something about the scene stops you cold. This isn't a break-in. This is someone who had nowhere else to go. Molina's fingerprints are all over this - and now you have a choice to make before she even opens her eyes.